The Science of Seduction
by FeralGrace
Summary: Ivy Annesley is your typical café waitress with a passion for reading and a ridiculously high IQ. That is, until her life is flipped upside down after a brief encounter with a certain detective, in the process of trying to fake his own death. When interrogated, he reluctantly allows her to join him on a 2-year-long journey across the globe, as his temporary assistant and new perman
1. I - Mr Holmes

January 15th, 2015, 8:30am

punctuality

pʌŋ(k)tʃʊˈalɪti/

noun

Punctuality. A word almost foreign to Ivy Annesley, a 23-year-old with a frankly kind of boring life. Every day, without fail, there'd be at least one thing she'd be late to. Whether it was because she had no motivation to arrive anywhere on time or simply because she forgot many things, she didn't know. One thing her friends would constantly state was that she'd be 'late to her own funeral', and to be honest, she wholly agreed. Perhaps it was her fault. Perhaps it was merely a case of bad luck. But whatever it was, she was used to it, and it didn't bother her as much as it used to. After all, what was the point in getting herself worked up over something she couldn't help?

However, after being the one and only eye witness to certain points of a sudden turn of events, there was one single person for whom Ivy had made a silent vow to never be late.

Being ridiculously late for work, in addition to being caught up in the midst of another typical crime in the bustling streets of London, tends to result in either a fairly serious road accident or, even worse, being fired. Either one of these scenarios were bound to happen to Ivy, and although she was immensely clumsy 90% of the time, it was most likely to be the latter in this case. Despite the fact that she hardly even had enough spare time to calculate anything particularly excessive, she figured that she'd been late around 15 days in a row. Give or take a few. Plus, her boss was... well, harsh was one word for it, she supposed. At worst, he was simply diabolical. At best... eh, there was very little difference.

Since the only job she had the requirements for was working in a damn café, Ivy had been forced to settle with being a waitress in a busy yet cosy place located 10 minutes away from her apartment. The customers were frequently rude and she'd return home with tea stains and cake crumbs all over her clothes, but she'd grown used to it there, and had eventually learned to look past the terrible side of things and focus on the good times, no matter how rarely they came. However, on particularly hectic days such as this one, it'd often take her a good few extra minutes to arrive there.

Fortunately, she had a Plan B. There was a passage beside St Bartholomew's Hospital that was probably a shortcut (again, she never had any time to compare the distance of that route to her usual one) and she could easily head in that direction. Hopefully, she'd be able to escape the street in time to circumvent being caught trespassing in a crime scene. How hard could it possibly be to narrowly avoid the clusters of people scattered around the streets, and rows of ambulances parked outside?

Unluckily for her, the event that was causing such pandemonium took place in that precise spot. Reporters hadn't yet reached the exact scene of the crime, but they were nearing it rapidly, closing in on a rather small huddle of people with cameras and microphones. Standing a good 30 feet away from the commotion was a lone man, the expression on his face something along the lines of disbelief, disappointment, pure horror and total heartbreak. Ivy felt a great pang in her chest, and averted her gaze once more, directing her attention at the group of people surrounding a figure on the floor.

Before then, she'd always felt that the use of the phrase 'everything happened in a blur' was extremely overrated in books and other forms of writing, but if she were entirely truthful, those few words were all she could think of that were an adequate description of those 10-20 seconds. Inching closer to the crowd, her curiosity was quickly replaced by utter confusion when a curly-haired, tall man rose swiftly from the pavement and sped round the corner, returning within seconds to help several doctors carry an exact replica of his own body over to the floor.

"What the..." whispered Ivy, watching in perplexity at the scene before her. From the angle at which she was standing, and probably many others, the figure sprawled on the floor appeared dead. Stone cold. Blood pooling around his head.

She shuddered. The heartbroken man she'd spotted before was pushing his way towards the group, clearly distressed, muttering a string of indistinct sentences. Many hospital staff were making desperate attempts to calm him down, but the nearer he inched towards the body, the more inconsolable he seemed to become.

"That's my friend." Was the only distinguishable phrase that escaped his lips, and one that he seemed to repeat over and over again. Trickling down his face were either beads of sweat or tears - Ivy couldn't be certain. Either way, though, her heart began to beat a little faster, as it dawned on her that the thing on the floor was most definitely not that man's friend.

Raising her eyes to glance at the corner around which the curly-haired man had darted after laying down the other body, she was damn near appalled to see him looming there, hands tucked in the pockets of his coat, gazing blankly at the scene before him as it were something as common and boring as any other street in London. It was only when he turned on his heel and had disappeared in 3 quick strides, though, that her blood truly began to boil.

Screw her job. Nobody should do such a terrible thing and get away with it.

Ignoring the cries of objection from several doctors and nurses, she sprinted round the back of the building, thick strands of wavy brown hair that'd usually be cascading down her back now flowing behind her in the strong breeze. Despite the speed at which she was running, her footsteps were quite light on the concrete path, very nearly inaudible. Staring straight ahead, she groaned as her gaze fell on a series of passages leading in all sorts of different directions, and she realised that she hadn't a clue which direction he'd gone.

Fearing she'd lost sight of the tall man, Ivy's pace began to slow, and her heavy breathing due to sudden exercise was calming. Still running but nowhere near as quickly, she rounded the corner, but her path was almost instantly blocked by someone who, upon impact, was taken by surprise just as she was. With a loud oof and a deep gasp from the other person, the pair tumbled to the ground in a tangled mass of limbs, and Ivy found herself staring down into the eyes of the curly-haired man.

She recognised him from the papers - that one realisation alone was enough to tell her that this was no ordinary bloke. When she did read newspapers, she rarely payed attention to the photos on the inside, just the writing, so he must've been on the front page quite often or else she wouldn't have recognised him. His eyebrows were furrowed in bewilderment, his lips parted slightly in shock, and his hair appeared wilder without the deerstalker hat to contain his dark locks, but it was most definitely him. And Ivy never would've thought that she'd be so darn disappointed to meet a potential celebrity.

"You." She hissed, making no effort to crawl off the chest of the man pinned to the floor beneath her. A bemused expression crossed his face the moment that one word escaped her lips, and this only annoyed her more.

"You." He acknowledged airily, making little to no effort to get off the ground. "I have to say, this isn't the first time I've been pursued by a hormonal news reporter, so your actions are becoming a little boring."

"I- what? I'm not a news reporter." Ivy scoffed, blowing a stray strand of hair out of her face, "and I'm most definitely not hormonal, Sherlock Holmes. I just happen to be a concerned eye-witness, and I thought you'd might like to have a little chat."

"Well, that all depends."

"On what?"

"On how quickly you can get off my chest. I don't mean to alarm you, but at this particular moment, I'm struggling to breathe." He stated calmly, earning a small gasp of surprise from Ivy and a mumbled apology, before she pushed herself off his chest and stood up, offering him a hand.

Instead of taking it, Sherlock merely looked at her as if she had two heads, and she scoffed. "Oh come on, Mr Holmes. You may be an utter douche, but some of us are decent human beings. Either take it or don't."

Reluctantly, he reached up to grab her hand and hauled himself up, brushing dirt from his hair. "Thank you." He growled, now towering over her. "Now, are you going to tell me what the hell you want? As you can see, I'm in a rush."

"What? Scared John's already figured out your little plan?" Ivy snapped in response, thankful that she'd managed to remember the name of his assistant just moments before she spoke. "I know what you did. It's cruel."

The blood visible drained from Sherlock's face, and although he attempted to maintain composure, Ivy knew for a fact that he was beginning to panic. "What's wrong? Thought you'd get away with it, did you? Well, you're wrong. And if you don't tell him the truth, or come up with a plausible explanation in approximately 30 seconds, I will scream so fucking loud that he's guaranteed to hear and come running. And if he doesn't, I'll go ahead and tell him anyway. I promise you." She hissed, and she could feel her face heating up a little in anger. To be truthful, she didn't know why what Sherlock had done had enraged her so much, but this still didn't help her put out the fire that was suddenly raging inside of her.

"Oh dear, didn't your parents ever tell you not to go charging into situations you don't understand?" he drawled, watching in confusion as Ivy visibly tensed up. He seemed to have struck a nerve.

"You're an asshole, Holmes. And, in fact, I understand perfectly, thank you very much." She retorted, balling her hands into fists.

"Clearly not, but alright then. If you're so desperate for a story, I'll give you one. Give me your mobile phone." He demanded calmly, as if forcibly taking somebody's personal item was as common as talking, or breathing. Still skeptical, Ivy handed Sherlock her phone in slow motion, jumping in shock as he grew impatient and snatched it out of her hands.

"This.. is... my... number." He muttered slowly, his thumbs tapping rapidly on her screen. "Send me a message once you've finished work, and I'll send you an address. We'll talk there. It's a rather long story, and one that really mustn't be shared with the whole of England, so do try to keep it to yourself for just one day, alright?" He reminded her, his face empty of any specific expression as he threw her phone back at her. Ivy managed to grab it in time, glaring at him.

"How am I supposed to know you'll be true to your word, Mr Holmes?"

"You don't." He stated simply, before striding away in the opposite direction. "Goodbye, Ivy."


	2. II - Away

Obviously Ivy had been fairly certain that the number added to her contacts by none other than consulting detective Sherlock Holmes was a fake, and she'd been played just as well as John Watson had, so she was a little taken aback to receive a reply just milliseconds after she sent a message to it. However, the mere fact that Sherlock had responded wasn't the reason why she very nearly dropped her phone in surprise upon reading the text.

Meet me here. You have one hour. If you're not here by then, that's your problem.

Ivy groaned. The address was on the other side of town - it'd take half an hour to arrive at her location if she travelled by car. Or, more specifically, a taxi cab. There was absolutely no time to change out of her waitress uniform. How could she possibly intimidate the great Mr Sherlock Holmes whilst practically drowning in tea?

Whatever. She'd just have to be a woman and suck it up.

Emerging from the comfort of the warm café which, although it often reeked of caffeine, she'd grown rather fond of these past few years, she flung her arm up in the air dramatically in order to hail a taxi, but was quickly interrupted by her boss charging out of the door towards her.

"Annesley!" He greeted with that sickly sweet voice of his, eyes narrowing menacingly. "You never gave me your reason for being late."

"Oh, haven't you heart? Sherlock Holmes plummeted to his death this morning. It turns out that the location of his suicide was during my route to work, and the traffic was horrendous." Ivy emphasised on the final word, rolling her eyes for good measure.

"You walk here." Her boss stated slowly, cocking an eyebrow.

"Yeah, and I cross roads. Rush hour affects us pedestrians, too, you know." Earning a glare from him, she sighed. "Look, I'm sorry, okay? But right now, I have to be somewhere. I promise you, it won't happen again."

"You bet it won't, Annesley." He handed her an envelope, and she frowned. "I don't get payed till next week."

"Well, you see, there's the problem. You aren't getting payed next week, or the week after, or ever again. You're fired." He grinned maliciously and turned to enter the café again.

"What?" Ivy shrieked. "You can't do that. Oh, come on, I was a few minutes late on one or two occasions, so what?"

"I can do that and I just did. Enjoy your life." He chirped cheerfully, before walking into the café, a light skip in his step.

Ivy groaned for the second time in three minutes, yelling after him, "just so you know, I spat in your coffee, like, thirty times!"

"Get off my property before I get a restraining order!" He screamed from inside, earning a few awkward glances from multiple customers. "What?" She heard him ask everybody. "You try hiring the likes of her. She's a nightmare."

Rolling her eyes with meaning this time, she turned and walked to the edge of the pavement, almost verbally thanking the heavens when a cab pulled up beside her.

Pulling open the door and very nearly hitting herself in the head in the process, Ivy slid not-so-gracefully into the backseat, giving the driver a warm yet brief smile to greet him and giving him the address before he had a chance to get a word in edgeways.

"And, uh, step on it, please. I have something to meet, and I doubt he'll handle me being late very well." She stated, well aware that she had no reason to share this with a man she'd know for only 25 minutes but also way beyond caring.

"Oh dear. This a new lover, eh? Well, good luck, darling. I'm sure he'll be absolutely smitten." The man retorted with a low chuckle, and Ivy's jaw dropped.

"Absolutely not!" He cocked an eyebrow. "Holmes is singularly the most arrogant, callous, self-absorbed man I've ever had the misfortune of meeting. After this one exchange, I should bloody well hope that I never lay eyes of him again. I just.. I don't know. Curiosity got the better of me. But I shouldn't have let it, 'cause I mean, you know what they say, it killed the cat."

"Indeed, you're right. But people also tend to say that satisfaction bought it back. I'm sure this Holmes man isn't nearly as bad as you make him seem, or else you wouldn't be in such a hurry to meet him." He pointed out, fixing his gaze on the road ahead of him instead of turning to ogle her constantly, as the majority of men chauffeuring her around would do. Ivy was glad she didn't have to give him another of her usual just-because-I'm-paying-you-money-doesn't-mean-you-can-perv-on-me lectures, as amusing as they were.

"Ha!" She scoffed. "You definitely wouldn't be saying that if you'd ever met the bloke. I've only spoken to him once - earlier today - and oh gosh, I'm dreading doing so agai-"

"No you're not." The driver cut her off with this simple statement, and Ivy blinked at his reflection in the rear-view mirror in disbelief.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You're not dreading it, dear. It's fairly obvious. Sure, he might be irritating, but there's got to be a side to him that you like so far. What is it? Is he interesting, unique, amusing, or a genuinely decent person?"

"Is there an option for 'none of the above'?" Ivy drawled, rolling her eyes. "I mean, don't get me wrong, you'd be a pretty great therapist and all, but not for me. Not in my case. If you knew who I was talking about exactly, you'd agree with me within seconds, but.. I'm not at liberty to say his name."

"Ah, shame. It would've been helpful, I suppose. But, not to worry. We're almost there."

"What? Already? It's been five minutes!"

"Well, by 'almost', I really mean that we have another... ten minutes. But, not to worry. I'll turn on the radio, if you'd like."

"No, that's quite alright, but I do appreciate the offer. I'd rather sit and brood in silence." She replied, only half-joking.

"If you say so." Was all he replied with before he fell silent, the only noise being the occasional string of verbal abuse erupting from his mouth that was directed at some other car, or him either humming or drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. It was frankly rather irritating, but it was his car, and he could do whatever the hell he wanted in it.

After what felt like an eternity, the cab pulled to a stop outside what appeared to be an abandoned warehouse. No lights were on inside, no cars were parked up beside it. It appeared to be a scene straight out of a horror film. Ivy shuddered. She was a lover of horror films, but she didn't fancy the idea of being in one.

"You sure this is the right place?" asked a rather puzzled driver, glancing back at Ivy in concern. She shrugged.

"From what I heard, this guy's a total weirdo and a half, so probably." She muttered, handing him the money she owed and stepping out of the vehicle. "I'll be fine. I have a pretty powerful scream, anyways, so I'll probably stun whoever's waiting with it for a long enough period of time to make an easy escape. Don't worry about me." She paused, and grinned. "But I'm still thankful for your company on the way here, so I suppose I owe you a name, though you'll probably forget it in the next couple of hours. I'm Ivy."

"James." He smirked a little at her through the window, and she was mildly shocked to see that he looked much younger now than he did when she was seated behind him. Around the same age as her, if not a few years older.

"Nice to meet you, James. Now, I'd better go. I have fifteen minutes until I'm due to meet him, and I've still gotta figure out exactly where he'll be." A half-hearted groan escaped her lips, and she headed towards the door. "See you soon. And by 'soon' I mean, in a cruel twist of fate, probably never." with a quiet laugh, she walked through the door, shutting it instantly behind her without looking back.

But even behind the sturdy brick walls of the warehouse, she could've sworn that she'd heard the driver drawl 'have fun with Sherlock' before he sped away.

Using the dim light of her phone screen to navigate her way around the endless winding tunnels in the interior of the building, Ivy crept forward at a remarkably slow pace, despite the fact that she knew she'd be late to meet Sherlock, and would probably never see him again after today if she missed her chance. She did consider calling his name multiple times, just to check whether she'd receive a response or at least make herself known to him, but a small part of her feared that he wouldn't be the only other person there with her, so she managed to refrain from doing that.

All thoughts of alerting anybody else were quickly swiped from her mind, however, when a large hairy object sat itself atop her head. Though she hadn't a clue what it was exactly, the soft pitter patter feeling and the tugging on her hair gave her a vague idea, and she simply couldn't help herself: she screamed.

It echoed throughout the whole building, very nearly vibrating the floor, but she found that she didn't care in the slightest. All she could think about was getting the wretched creature off her, and as far away as possible.

"SHIT!" came another shrill shriek as the thing landed, not on the floor, but on her shoulder. Since she was way too frightened to brush it off with her bare hands, for some unbeknownst reason she found it reassuring to hop about like a lunatic and blow fiercely on the thing as if it was capable of flying away or something. Needless to say, this didn't happen, and she only panicked more.

"HOLMES, WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?!" She screeched, scanning the room she was in desperately for something to hit the spider with, whether it be a broom or a bloody revolver. She needn't have looked, however, as fractions of a second later, the heavy weight on her shoulder was gone, and her entire being was suddenly shrouded in the shadow cast by the tall, foreboding figure of Sherlock Holmes.

"What the hell are you doing?" He asked casually, raising an eyebrow.

"What the he- I was looking for you, clearly. Surely you don't have to be a genius to know that." Ivy scoffed, shivering as the faint tingling sensation on both her head and shoulder failed to wear off.

"I wasn't aware that searching for me required a ridiculous amount of shrieking and jumping around like a manic monkey, but thank you for verifying that." He responded sarcastically, clasping his hands behind his back. "Scared of spiders, I presume?"

"No shit." She muttered sarcastically, still shaking. "And snakes. Don't get me started on either of them. Beastly."

Sherlock frowned. "Are you cold?"

"No. Just recovering from my little meeting with Peter Parker over there. But you're going off topic, and besides, talking about the damn thing isn't doing anything to help me." She sniffed. "Do we really have to talk here?"

"No. I just assumed the abandoned building would add to the tension of meeting up with me alone, when I'm on the run from half of England."

"Well, your assumptions were correct, that's for sure." Ivy muttered bitterly, scoffing. "So, where would you like to talk?"

"So, let me get this straight: you're the world's most famous detective at the moment, faking your own death and still living in the goddamn capital city of England with a population of around eight million people who, may I add, all know who you are, and you're being so bloody risky as to lounge around in a park full of people in broad daylight. You're more dense than I thought." Ivy scoffed as she seated herself beside Sherlock on a park bench, raising a bemused eyebrow at him.

"Clearly, you don't get around much. Most people that reside in this town are simply ignorant, and dim-witted."

"Apart from you?" Ivy suggested.

"Exactly. We'll be fine for an hour or two."

And so they were. Sherlock, true to his word, explained the whole story to Ivy in detail, growing impatient when she asked him to repeat whatever he'd just said or irritated when she pointed out a flaw in his plan, but he told her all the same. Ivy's eyes twinkled, showing both immense interest and pity that he had to distance himself from his friends for such a long time.

"Wait, but if this Moriarty guy's dead now, can't you just live your life normally, as you did before you met him? I mean, your friends aren't in danger now, right?"

"I'm afraid that's not so simple. If you'd been listening closely to a word I said, you'd know I specifically said that Jim Moriarty is a spider. The whole of London, hell, the whole world is built on his own little web. He has connections with every notable criminal alive today. Trust me, even from beyond the grave, he'll know. This is my only option." He paused, and shot her a calculating look. "That's why you won't be telling John, nor Mrs Hudson, Lestrade or Molly Hooper. You've never met the latter three anyway, but that's beside the point."

"Well, Mr Holmes, what good would it do me to keep this secret of yours to myself? First of all, you're a bloody sociopath, who knows what you'll do with a bit of free time on your hands. Second, I very rarely do anything for anybody if there's nothing in it for me. So, what do you have to offer?"

The detective parted his lips slightly to retort, but seemed to think against it. Instead, he turned up the collar of his coat and turned to face her, leaning forward and clasping his hands together. He fixed his gaze on her, the look he was directing at her sending chills running down her spine.

First, he observed her face, eyes scanning her as if she were an open book to be read.

"What in God's name are you doing?" She asked, her voice cracking a little as she suddenly felt a little embarrassed to be the object of this man's attention.

"Shut up. I'm deducing you." He muttered, "what else would I be doing?"

Ivy frowned and squirmed away from him as he averted his gaze to the rest of her, whispering mainly to herself, "creep."

"No, not a creep. Just intelligent. Can you spell it?" He asked, seemingly irritated as he leaned back once again.

"So?"

"So what?"

"What did you deduce? And, uh, give me the reasons why you'd think such things of me, just so I know you're not lying."

"No." Was all he replied.

"What do you mean 'no'? This is my life, Holmes, I have every right to know what you know about me."

Sherlock appeared to be quite perplexed. He'd stood from his sitting position and was now pacing back and forth along the length of the bench, hands clasped behind his back. He must do that a lot, Ivy noted.

"Holmes, this isn't-"

"Shut up, I'm thinking."

"About?"

Nothing. Just more pacing, and an odd sigh here and there, until-

"Nothing. Nothing at all. I couldn't deduce a single thing from you." He admitted eventually, slumping back onto the bench beside her.

No. Not slumping. Not quite. Sherlock Holmes didn't slump.

Ivy froze. That certainly wasn't what she'd been expecting. "Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"

"Bad. Terrible, even. Because now, I can't figure out what type of person you are, which will result in not knowing what kind of payment you want, which means you're probably going to be bloody human and decide to tell John like any other normal person would - I think. I'm not entirely sure, I'm no normal person." He was pacing again now, yet more quickly, running his hands through his unruly curls.

"Why don't you just ask me what I'm like?"

"Because the- actually, that's not such a bad idea. Do share. And, uh, don't exclude any details, however meaningless they may be. Because if you do, you won't have anything left to tell me. Ordinary people are terribly boring."

"Whoever said I was boring?" Ivy snapped in reply defensively, forgetting for a moment that to Sherlock, even his own brother was probably a little boring.

"I just did. Now, speak."

Considering standing up for herself but eventually deciding to leave it alone, she sighed and began to speak. "Well, uhm, i'm... a large fan of books?" Sherlock cocked an eyebrow but didn't comment, so she continued, "crime and mystery are by far my favourites. I, uhm, I've only really read anything from that genre alone since I was..." she paused, calculating something in her head "..around eight years old. Made me want to be involved in some kind of criminal activity myself. Not committing the crimes, mind, but solving them. I don't know, it just... fascinates me." Ivy chuckled to herself, shooting him an amused glance. "So, basically, I want to be another version of you, just less of an arse. Yet here I am, unemployed and not going to college anytime soon."

"I thought you worked in a café?" He asked, perplexed, brushing off the rest of her little recital.

"Precisely. I worked in a café." She hesitated for a moment, giving him a calculating look and having an internal debate over whether or not she should confess earlier's events to him. After all, it wasn't like he cared. So although he might mock her for a while, he wasn't going to do anything with the information. After today, she was never going to see his perfectly chiselled little face again.

Right?

"You were fired." It was more of a statement than a question - though Ivy was hardly surprised. He was the world's most skilful detective, he didn't ask the questions, he answered them.

Nodding and chewing her lip absently, she was a little puzzled to see a smile cross the detective's features, for more reasons than one. Not only was it the first time she'd ever seen him crack a smile, including both the news and seeing him personally, but she wasn't aware how her being fired could possibly bring him joy.

"What's so funny?"

"Not funny, brilliant!" He exclaimed, jumping up from the bench and pointing an accusatory finger at her. "Why on earth didn't you suggest it before? Dear Lord, I know you better than you know yourself. Oh, it's genius. It's insane!"

"What is? Holmes, I swear to god, you'd better tell me or I'll-"

"I have no idea why I'm only thinking of this now. God, how could I have been so stupid? You're brilliant! Well, no, I'm brilliant! Why, the solution is simple."

"Sherlock Holmes, what the hell is this solution?" Ivy shrieked eventually, losing her temper. "Honestly, I get the point. You're a bloody miracle, a pure genius, whatever you say. Just please, stop being so frickin mysterious -" as she said this, she reached over to fold down his collar and gave him a meaningful look, "- and tell me what this idea of yours is."

Sherlock's grin faded a little from his face as he rolled his eyes, but there was still a hint of a smile there. "You're going to travel across the globe with me for... well, I haven't figured that part out yet. But it should be for at least a year." He paused and, as if to add something as an afterthought in order to convince her further, pointed out, "you did say that you always wanted to solve crimes, correct?"

"W-well yes, but.. with you?" She spluttered, a faint scarlet tinge saturating her cheeks. "I mean, no offence and all, and you're surely a lot of... fun, but - first of all, I just met you. Like, a few hours ago. And we've literally had two conversations altogether. And secondly, I- I have a life here. I can't just throw everything away and put myself at risk when we're off doing whatever it is you do to feel some sort of twisted thrill. I can't. I'm sorry."

"Yes, Ivy, you can." He grabbed her shoulders now, not quite gripping her enough to hurt her but still preventing her from escaping his grasp easily. "You got fired, okay? What are you going to do whilst I'm off improving my own life, huh? Find another job somewhere and live out your days serving tea and being... spat on?" He gestured carelessly to her work uniform. "You have no life, okay? That much I can deduce. There's nothing left for you here."

"Why do you care, huh?" She asked, crossing her arms and tilting her head inquisitively. "You're Sherlock Holmes, Mr I-Don't-Need-Anybody-To-Be-Great, high-functioning bloody sociopath. I don't understand what I could possibly have to offer?"

"Well, are you intelligent?"

"Yes, but-"

"Dedicated? Persistent? Bold?"

"I don't see why all of this matters, Holmes."

"Look. No news reporter has ever stated in any article that I'm a high functioning sociopath. Every single person who knows of me, aside from Mycroft and maybe John, immediately assumed that I'm some sort of psychopath. But I'm not. And you got that right. It's not rocket science, I know, and it's pretty much common knowledge to tell the difference, but you're still the first person to get it right. That must mean something. You may be ordinary, but you're not quite as dense as everybody else. Now, please." He paused and checked his watch, groaning in annoyance. "Come with me."

Ivy hesitated, understandably. Although Sherlock was, indeed, extremely (and modestly) famous for his crime-solving, he was also a person with a tendency to not care at all about other people, and, though she didn't even want him to think of her as more than a mere acquaintance, she was afraid that, if she were to ever stare into the face of danger whilst he wasn't nearby, he wouldn't care. Which would result in her inevitable death.

On the other hand, he was entirely right, though she wouldn't ever admit it to his face. It would damage her pride, but he knew her more than she knew herself at the moment - which is saying something, considering he claimed that she was indeductible. If she didn't take this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, she'd regret it for the rest of her existence.

"Can I.. can I think about it?" She asked eventually, giving him a defeated sigh. "I'm a little torn."

"Torn? Torn? Ivy, you have to understand. The detective career rank simply doesn't give you time to stop and think. It's all about following your brain, not your heart, and you this brain of yours must work quickly. It's absolutely vital." He paused and shrugged a little, drawling, "oh, and, my flight leaves in thirty minutes. Care to make that our flight? I'm highly unlikely to find a suitable assistant in... well, I've yet to discover where I'm headed yet, since Mycroft's being particularly secretive on that part, but..." he trailed off and raised an eyebrow, not quite hopefully as she was sure that he'd be more than fine without her, but rather inquisitively, at least.

"You have thirty seconds. That's all I'm giving yo-"

"You know what? No. I don't need time." She paused, able to faintly hear her heart pounding inside her chest in anticipation, her blood pumping through her veins as she crossed her arms and smirked. "I'll come. But, only on one condition."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow curiously, indicating for her to continue.

"You have to teach me everything you know about crime-solving on this trip."


End file.
